


A Week in the Life at Benny's Crab Shack

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Because Season 8 is still my fav, Castiel Loves Burgers, Chef Benny, Dean Loves Pie, Destiel POV Benny, Fluff and Humor, Insomniac Dean, M/M, Nurse Castiel, POV Benny Lafitte, References to Canon, Restaurant Owner Benny, Restaurants, Sexual Humor, Tired Castiel, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 10:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11250948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Cas’s mouth parts, taken back by the offer. “Um… I mean, I don’t even know your name.”“Dean,” he says, lending out his hand, “and yours?”“Cas.”“Cas,” Dean says, smile widening before he takes back his hand. “Nice to meet you. See, now we know each other. And I have all night to listen. I’m an insomniac; I could use a good bedtime story.”





	A Week in the Life at Benny's Crab Shack

**Author's Note:**

> So I remember having this sort of concept floating around in my head a long time ago, where we see the boys falling in love through Benny's eyes. But I wanted to change it up when I thought about it again, this time having Benny almost completely detached from the story as nothing more than a restaurant owner, that way we can see an unbias and untouched (meaning, he doesn't help steer either of them in the right direction in any way, shape or form) point of view of how Dean and Cas fall in love.
> 
> With that said, enjoy. (:

 

**Monday**

Since the untimely death of his wife, Benny Lafitte’s been an observer.

Like today, when a man with denim-clad bowlegs and clearly rundown boots struts through his place of work. Benny can tell straightaway he’s new. Every customer he has is a regular, and for a good reason, too. It’s a place for people with a selective pallet for spicy foods, because in South Louisiana, it’s all about Cajun, with spices that pack more punch than Muhammad Ali’s uppercut.

“Hi, do you sell pie?” he asks Liz once he’s at the counter. All Benny can see from the kitchen opening is his niece parting her hair to her right side like Rapunzel meeting her Flynn Rider.

“Sure do, sweetheart,” she says, bouncing on the balls of her flats. Benny laughs from the kitchen, observing it all. It’s funny to see her all flustered. Liz is used to everyone and their fathers (the latter being much to Benny’s chagrin) hitting on her, but Flynn must be a real looker. “Pecan or peach?”

“Well, I love me a good pecan, but since I’m feeling a little _sweet_ today,” he says, “peach sounds fantastic.”

Liz slides to the left of her to the pie display, which gives Benny a full close-up of Flynn so he’s able to make out the finer details: green eyes, lightly tanned skin stickered with freckles around his nose, large fluffed-up lips a stark contrast to his strong jawline. He’s modest, though, wearing nothing short of every flannel he has over a black shirt. He wears no jewelry but a golden ornament on a flimsy black string, nor does he wear makeup, but he does have some redness around his eyes.

Liz brings out Flynn’s slice and, because business is slowing since it’s close to ten o’clock at night, props herself against the counter next to Flynn. They soon become immersed in conversation.

Before he can keep looking on, the phone rings next to him. “Benny’s Crab Shack, where the crabs we serve only pinch your taste buds, how may I help you?” Before he takes the phone to the back, he glances back over again and sees Liz doubled over in laughter. “Yeah, we do take-out.”

 

**Tuesday**

It’s around the same time of night as the last, except this stranger carries himself much different than the first.

By carrying, Benny means dragging the bottoms of his blue scrubs across the wooden floor. His tanned face, Benny can see as he nears closer, drips with exhaustion. From his messy brown hair to his faded blue eyes and growing beard to his slumped shoulders as he plops himself down on a stool.

Although, despite looking like a hand dry coat after being thrown into the dryer on tumble press, he’s not completely gone, because the first thing out of his mouth is, from which comes an unexpectedly raspy voice, “Can I have a, um, Cajun burger. Medium-rare, with the remoulade sauce and extra sweet potatoes, please?”

“You got it,” Liz says, not bothering with the notepad to jot that down on. Benny’s within earshot, so he rings the bell, indicating the order’s been placed. The man doesn’t even flinch at the sound, just sinks into his chair and breathes a sigh of genuine relief. “Long day, handsome?”

The corners of the man’s large pink lips seem to quirk up a little at the mention of him being handsome, and whether or not Liz is practicing good customer service or just being courteous altogether, she’s right, because he’s also an attractive guy. It’s not unusual to see a few nurses hanging around, but most of them work the night shift and pop in for brunch. But there’s something different about this guy.

For one, he’s not with a group of other nurses, who tend to pack together like wolves before hunting season, and two, he’s not high off adrenaline, going on loudly about the work and the patients and the insurance companies that don’t cut them any slack. “You could say that,” he replies, and though he doesn’t seem up for conversation beyond those four words, he asks Liz in return, “How about you?”

He sees Liz nod, and even she can’t keep the smile out of her voice, “I’m… good. Thank you for askin’.”

 

**Wednesday**

“Look who’s back,” Liz chimes as Benny pops through the window to see Flynn approaching the counter. “I’d have thought you’d found a place that serves better pie, like Biggerson’s.”

Flynn slides into a seat, but not before asking, “Do you remember the episode of SpongeBob with the Synthetic Krabby Patty? Where the patties were made of that weird gray goo?”

Liz laughs, “I don’t, actually. But I’m surprised you do, granted you’re probably, what, in your mid-thirties?”

“That’s _early_ thirties, thank you for making me feel old,” Flynn chuckles, shaking his head. “Anyway, I have a nine-year-old son; I’m sort of obligated to know these things.”

“Fair enough. Proceed.”

“Well, imagine biting into a Turducken and having actual slimy gray goo come out.”

“Yikes.”

Flynn shivers at the mere memory. “Yeah, never again. Besides,” he says, resting his elbow on the counter and his hand under his lightly stubbled chin, “where else would I go that spoils me as rotten as you do, Liz?”

“Dean, is this your way of tryin’ to say you want another slice of pie?”

“Yes, because if _I_ say it, then I’m not spoiled, am I?”

Liz moves to the other side of the counter, leaving Benny to drink in the name. _Dean._ It’s no better or worse than Flynn, but it still leaves Benny wondering, despite his unwavering trust in Liz, how many Rapunzels he’s asked to let their hair down.

 

**Thursday**

Benny’s wiping off a hard day’s work on his last table, which, on Thursday nights when the number of shrimp special orders jumps higher than the sea buggers themselves when they’re alive (and, in select parts of China, being _eaten_ that way—even for Cajuns, that’s a bit much), consists of creole sauce and beer. He’s about to grab his keys and close shop early, when lightning strikes outside.

Now, Benny doesn’t usually jump. Lightning storms are common for monsoon season. So long as they stay closer to the bayou across the way so he’s not out of business. But when there’s a flash that illuminates a tall figure behind the glass door, it leaves him no choice. “ _Jesus_!” he exclaims, then as another flash captures the scene like a Kodak, he narrows his eyes, because he _knows_ the guy behind the door.

Looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s character in _Running Man_ minus the cigar, with a beard that can act as its own umbrella for the coming rain and his rumpled work clothes, is the man from Tuesday night, the guy with the blue eyes.

Benny opens the door and looks around outside before letting the man in, who, after plotting in, apologizes, “Sorry for scaring you, I was trying to read your hours of operation and… you guys are closed.”

Benny glances behind him at all the freshly cleaned tables, and then turns back to Blue Eyes. “Um… no. No, we’re not. I was just…”

“Cleaning up?” he finishes, turning around. “It’s quite alright. I came in late, anyway.”

“Listen—what’s your name?”

The man turns back around and replies, slightly warily, “Cas.”

“Cas,” Benny starts again, “it’s no trouble. Really. Besides, what’re you gonna eat?”

Cas shrugs, squinting his eyes in a way that makes Benny laugh a little. “Ramen shouldn’t be too hard. I lived off it for four years during medical school, anyway. Or a frozen. They have everything in frozens.”

“No. _No._ ” Benny shakes his head. Hearing the words “Ramen” and “frozens” in the same sentence, as a chef, makes him feel like the lobsters that are kept in the tank during the day are crawling up the length of his short but wider stature. “I guarantee they don’t make Cajun burgers, medium-rare, with remoulade sauce and extra sweet potatoes. You’re stayin’, sit down.”

Cas tilts his head a little, and though Benny can barely see it through layers of that ungodly facial hair, a smile graces his face. “Thank you, uhm…”

“Benny,” he says, lending out his hand, “I’m the owner.”

Cas shakes it with a firm grip. He still looks as worn down as ever, but Benny’s confident the burger will do him a favor. Besides, with Liz already gone, he could use the company, even if neither of them are talkers.

About ten minutes later, Benny heads back outside to find Cas sitting in the same place, at the counter on the chair furthest from the kitchen door. His face seems to light up some when he sees the plate coming to him. He thanks Benny, and, all at once, he starts digging in, and it’s probably the best compliment Benny’s received.

That’s when someone else steps through the threshold. He recognizes him as Dean, from yesterday—or, in his storybook, Flynn. “Hello,” he says out of curtesy, and only then does he realize how much better Liz is at the whole people thing than him, “I’m just cleaning up, but if you wanna hang out for a minute, feel free. Although…”

“You’re out of pie,” Dean finishes, looking at the display and snapping his finger, “story of my life. No worries, I’ll just hang out until close. I’ve no place to be.”

Dean walks over to the counter and, as he approaches, stops at the sight of Cas. Then, instead of taking his usual seat, which is closer to the kitchen door, he parks himself two seats away from him.

Benny watches on in interest. Despite Cas acknowledging him with a small nod before he resumes eating, Dean keeps looking over at him every few seconds, then up at the menu, and around the shop. He repeats this cycle a few times, Cas totally oblivious. “So,” he hears Dean say finally, “you, um… you ever try the Elvis?”

Cas turns his head after scarfing down the last of his burger, and Benny’s almost certain he chokes not only on the abundance of food in his mouth, but the question in itself, “I, um… I’m not sure I follow.”

“I mean, you like burgers, clearly,” Dean laughs. “The Elvis. It’s this burger served between two glazed donuts and four slices of bacon, and it’s out of this world.”

“How do you fit that in your mouth?”

Dean huffs under his breath, “My ex-wife asked me the same thing—about the burger, obviously.” He grins at his own joke, and continues long after he expects the same reaction from Cas, “Anyway, it’s really good. What kind of burger was that you were eating just now, the Cajun with… remoulade, is it?” Benny sees Cas narrow his eyes as he looks from his plate, adorned now with only fries, and then back at Dean. Dean answers, “You have a little bit of…”

Cas touches the part of his face Dean’s pointing to and blushes when he sees orange-ish white sauce come off. It’s the first time Benny’s seen color on him. “Oh… I, um… thank you. It’s been a long day.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You too?”

Dean shakes his head. “No, I mean tell me about it,” he says, smiling a little, “your long day.”

Cas’s mouth parts, taken back by the offer. “Um… I mean, I don’t even know your name.”

“Dean,” he says, lending out his hand, “and yours?”

“Cas.”

“Cas,” Dean says, smile widening before he takes back his hand. “Nice to meet you. See, now we know each other. And I have all night to listen. I’m an insomniac; I could use a good bedtime story.”

Cas smiles a little too, “I’m a nurse, but it’s basically the same thing.”

“A nurse,” comments Dean. “Wow, that’s… respectable.”

“It’s better than being a physician’s assistant,” Cas says, “I had to mop up a _lot_ of urine samples.”

Dean nods awkwardly before laughing, “I like where this story’s going already.”

Benny smiles on before picking up his rag again.

 

**Friday**

Friday is no different from any other day in the restaurant, especially at night when everything is still. Except, if you’re paying close attention, you can see two men sitting across from each other in the booth closest to the kitchen, the only redness tinting their faces being the spice on Benny’s newest extra spicy burger. Dean closer resembles Flynn more than ever, the way his lips are puckering and his cheeks are caving into a smolder, and Cas, who has long since ordered something else, is laughing at him.

And come Monday, Benny has a feeling it’ll just become a week in the life at Benny’s Crab Shack.


End file.
